


I woke up from the same dream

by AWalkingParadox



Series: I write things at midnight [1]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Fae AU, M/M, Set at the end of murderous mask, drabble?, not super canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:29:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21884536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWalkingParadox/pseuds/AWalkingParadox
Summary: It burns like fire. He recoils back just as the detective reaches a hand out to clasp the iron, eyes guarded. The skin of Peter’s fingers are bright red, stinging furiously. The detective’s mouth is twisted into a hardened line, though his eyes betray his guilt. “You’re one of them,” He says, “Fae.”
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Series: I write things at midnight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576492
Comments: 4
Kudos: 90





	I woke up from the same dream

**Author's Note:**

> Eyy! I dunno if I’ll add anything to this but in be mean time, enjoy this short little thing I wrote^^

The detective wears an iron chain around his throat. It’s a pretty little thing, threads of metal woven into an infinite halo, ending in a cross that rests just above his sternum. Peter is first made aware of this when he draws the detective in for a kiss. His fingers tug on the worn coat, and in his fervor, he doesn’t notice the flash of silver that nears his skin.

It burns like fire. He recoils back just as the detective reaches a hand out to clasp the iron, eyes guarded. The skin of Peter’s fingers are bright red, stinging furiously. The detective’s mouth is twisted into a hardened line, though his eyes betray his guilt. “You’re one of them,” He says, “Fae.”

“Indeed, I am.” Peter straightens the curve of his spine, cradling his hand in the other. “And you, detective, are human.”

“What are you doing here?” The lady snarls, “Did Sasha send you?”

“No,” Peter hums. His eyes survey the the dim-lit office, noting the scraps of paper on the floor, the hints of newspaper clippings and files peeking out from the bulging cabinets; the cracks on the ceiling and scuffs and scorch marks that decorate the floor. This room has been through many things. He smiles. “I’ve come here with a purpose of my own.”

“Rex Glass isn’t your real name, is it?” The detective twists the chain between his scarred fingers, moonlight glints off the metal. Dark hair curls down towards his eyes, and he brushes them away with mild annoyance. Scars decorate the bridge of his nose and the line of his jaw. For a human, Peter muses, he looks exquisite.

“Of course not, detective.” He replies, “Though you may continue to call me that.” 

“What’s your real name?” The detective asks, and Peter does have to admire his persistence. 

“Ah, but what is a name, really?” Peter says, eyes flitting to the iron cross, “A word to call me by? A sound? A syllable or two? What’s in a name, detective?”

“A lot more than it oughta have.” The detective grumbles, and Peter laughs. Oh, he’s a funny one, too.

“Well, my dear, it would take someone very special for me to give my name, let alone tell it.” 

“Yeah, well,” The detective flounders for a moment. He says his next words haltingly, like he’s never said them before. “May I have your name?”

Peter laughs, “No, detective. You may not.” 

“Worth a shot.” 

Peter giggles again, and he wonders if his eyes are bright, like how many have claimed before. The detective still grips the chain in his hand, and Peter knows that with it he can do no harm to the human. It’s matters not, the original plan’s been changed. It’s been modified with the new intel he has gathered. “Don’t be so glum, detective. Not many know my name.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like to know who I’m arresting.” 

Peter is met with the nozzle of a gun, and for a moment he’s speechless. 

“Listen, the only reason I’m not cuffing you is cause they’re made of iron, alright? But if you move even an inch, I won’t hesitate to fire.”

“I understand.” Peter says, “That’s very kind of you.” 

“The firing part? You’re the first one to ever say that.”

Peter doesn’t deign that with a reply, instead opting to study the detective himself. His eyes are dark, honest, swimming with emotions humans are so prone to feeling. There’s a weary set to his jaw, mouth quirked down. The coat he wears is torn and worn and covers his arms, but Peter sees the edge of a jagged scar peeking out from under the cuff. His shoulders are drawn forward, as if some invisible weight has him pinned down. 

He looks out towards the skyline, and Peter follows his gaze. 

“Hyperion City seems very beautiful.” Peter says, idly playing with a cuff link. 

“Yeah? On the outside, sure. Get to know the streets and gutters and suddenly seeing the same brick wall and bruised fist doesn’t seem so pretty.” 

“I take it you’ve had some experience?”

The detective barks out a harsh laugh, “Oh yeah, definitely. Don’t know why I stay, to be honest.”

Peter pauses at this, and his next words come out softer than intended. “You don’t have to.”

“What?”

“I’ve seen many places, detective, galaxies you can’t even imagine. The cold of winter, the warmth of spring; seasons that are wild in its unpredictability, not programmed by the technology of man.” He smiles, “Come with me. Join me in traveling the stars. Think of all the trouble we could get into.”

The detective is frozen, moonlight silver on his skin. Peter barely sees the movement of his lips. “I can’t.” 

“I have friends, wealthy friends. If you need to disappear, they can help you. If you’re worried about your secretary, I’m sure she can—“

“No! No-that’s not it.” The detective’s lips are pursed, and his grip on the gun is shaky. “I can’t leave Hyperion, Glass. It’s got its hooks into me, I owe this damn city.”

“I see.” Peter says, and he wonders at the pang of disappointment he feels. “That is certainly a shame.”

“Yeah, guess so.” 

“Well, if you ever need me, give me a call.” Peter says, “I will always answer you.”

“Now hold on a minute, you’re not going anywhere—“

“It truly is regrettable, having to leave, but I’m afraid I have places to be detective.” Peter smiles a sharp smile, bowing low with a sweep of his hand. “Goodbye.” 

“Wait—goddamn it—!” 

And Peter is gone, disappeared out the window in the space of a heartbeat. In his place, a folded piece of paper slowly flutters down, swaying as it lands gently on the floor. The detective runs to the window sill, cursing loudly at the artificial night sky. Peter watches him, another shadow blended into the skyline. He dips his head in farewell, and turns to leave. He does hope the detective reads his letter. After all, it would take someone very special for him to give his name, and the detective is a very special lady indeed.


End file.
